


The Other Game

by Ozymanreis



Series: The Other Game [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, First Time, M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sheriarty - Freeform, Texting, Virgin Sherlock, extremely virgin sherlock, jimlock, mostly lots of hinting, nothing super graphic, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1341109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty likes himself way too much to commit suicide. His empire is his life's work. Letting anyone even threaten it was out of the question. He certainly wouldn't let anyone go on a crusade to destroy it — or would he? What REALLY happened those two years Sherlock was gone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo... this is my first fic. I'm completely in love with the frailty of genius pairing, and wish it was more popular. I wrote this to "be the change I want to see" in the world, yada, yada. 
> 
> It is mostly un-beta'd, so be kind, but please feel free to point out if I've made some error, large or small.
> 
> Enjoy!

"So what was that all about?" A disgruntled Sherlock Holmes asked, sitting in a very dark room, having forced the lock moments ago. Through a small window, light trickled in from outside, outlining standard living room furniture. He double-checked a piece of paper that he had been clutching, "Cambridge University, Apartment 13C." While this was typical fare for a student's room, Sherlock couldn't help thinking he graduated over a decade ago, and hadn't a reason to be here.

Except one.

At some point during the encounter on the roof, before throwing himself off a 3-story building, Moriarty had slipped the paper into his coat pocket. This also being before Moriarty gleefully committed suicide. In his manic state of shock and panic, Sherlock almost didn't notice that the gun was fake. Almost. 

A dramatic slow clap met his ears, "I'll admit, I'm impressed." Moriarty glided into the room, wearing the same suit as when he _supposedly_ died. Unlike Sherlock, however, he didn't clean the fake blood off, barely visible in the moonlight, "Oh yes, I live for the punch line." He gave a dramatic pause, "Or maybe I don't." He smiled and took the chair opposite Sherlock, the lights clicking on. 

"When two people enter into a suicide pact, if one of them ducks out of it, it's considered manslaughter. But I'm sure you knew that." Sherlock said, scanning the criminal. 

Jim had seen better days — bags under his eyes, hair slicked with fake blood, melting a bit from recently dried sweat — he must've been running around all day, plugging the leaks caused from his faked suicide. 

"Oh please," Moriarty waved his hand dismissively, "I didn't think you'd actually kill yourself." At this, Sherlock had to scoff, "Then what about the assassins?" 

"It was a test. And like I said: I'm…" Moriarty gave a giant, Cheshire Cat-like grin, " _Impressed_."

There was an uncomfortable silence. The fire in Moriarty's eyes danced, but the brunette couldn't place what it was for — his plan had only half succeeded. Or maybe it was complete: as long as Sherlock didn't reveal himself as alive, the twisted story that was laid out would still have a satisfying conclusion. As for himself, Sherlock knew loose ends were bad for business.

"How did you do it?"

"What? Survive a gunshot to the brain? Aren't _you_ supposed to be a genius? Why don't _you_ tell _me_?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but honestly had no plausible conclusions; how _do_ you survive a bullet through the skull? "Why don't you tell me how _I_ survived?"

At this, the Irishman chuckled, "Oh my, does that mean you don't know?" He leaned forward, left hand drumming the _Partitia No. 1_ on his knee, "Admittedly, I don't know how you did it either. But I'm _dead_ curious." 

Sherlock groaned, "Is this going to be a running joke?" 

"Perhaps… unless you want to end it here and now." 

Sherlock bit his lip — he tried not to squirm, but his discomfort betrayed him, his knee jerking and hand twitching, trying to brace against the chair to steady himself. There were still tricks Holmes needed to keep secret, just in case his psychopathic adversary wasn't quite done with his death wish, "Why the location?"

"Oh, this?" Moriarty gestured around carelessly, taking a lighter mood, "This is where I work. Well… _worked_. I was provided free housing to educate the bright-eyed university kiddies." 

"You had an ordinary life?"

"Mmm yes, Sherlock. Actually, I'm quite surprised you never looked for me here. I didn't even use an alias — Professor James Moriarty, Advanced Euclidian Geometry. Imagine _that_! The most cursory Google search would've lead you straight here." He snickered, as if it were so obvious (and it was), "Did you _really_ think I could write 'Consulting Criminal' on my taxes?"

"A double life…" Sherlock mused, almost breathless in awe, " _Brilliant_."

"It's disappointing that you thought I lived at my own little Baker Street, putting holes in the wall out of boredom, with my own little pet Watson, relentlessly and pathetically waiting for a challenge. No, no, no, I leave that to the amateurs." He narrowed his eyes, "No wonder it was so easy to defeat you."

"But you didn't." Sherlock huffed, "Not _really_."

"And yet here we sit, two dead men. Well… dead to the world, at least. Your reputation is all I really wanted, not your life." He shrugged — he really could've gone either way, "What is your next move?"

"That depends, what is yours?" 

"Pick up. Continue being me somewhere else." He said matter-of-factly, "But if you make it your life's mission to hunt me down, I'll make sure my compatriots know that you didn't hold up your end of the bargain."

"You know I can't let you do that."

"Oh _please_ , Sherlock." He rolled his eyes, "Even if you stop _me,_ my web is well established. I've got plans going on for at _least_ the next decade. You can't stop the disease; I am not the cause, I am merely an opportunist. I don't participate in wars, merely see profit in starting them."

"Ah, but I'd be forced to fight against that too, no matter how impossible the odds. But you could easily force my hand — I've already shown my willingness to protect those I hold most dear. So the question becomes: what do you _expect_ me to do?"

Moriarty giggled; a nasty smirk encompassed his face, "I expect you to do it anyway, because you're… _you_. Even if the angels were against you, you'd serve them regardless. If only you could commit to evil this way." For the smallest fraction of a second, Moriarty lost his composure. His amusement fell, his brow wrinkled in dismay. Sherlock was thrown — what could this mean? It was as if his entire being were trying to say, "I'm disappointed." 

"Why would I exhaust myself trying to flush out your network, when you could just threaten my… _friends_  again?"

"Because I'm going to hand it to you!" Moriarty giggled again, riding out every inch of pleasure he could ascertain from Sherlock's bewildered face, "The names, the connections: everything I've created." 

At this, Sherlock was taken aback; physically and _very_ visibly flinching, mouth agape.

"Yes, you didn't see that coming, did you? I'll even give you the information in cryptic messages, for old time's sake. Ah, but now you must be asking yourself: what's the catch?" All of the criminal's teeth were visible, his words sprinkled with excited laughter, "Let's have dinner."

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock's mind swam — this request was innocuous, but completely off topic. _He isn't a fool,_ he pondered, _That information is priceless, especially now that he's on the run. How would dinner possibly pay for it?_

His line of thought was interrupted by a very concrete answer, "Neither am I." 

Suddenly the conversation got far too ripe with conflicting emotions for the detective, "If you'll excuse me, I have my own funeral to attend." He had heard this phrase from all too many females in his life, most notably from the Woman, prompting him to jump out of his chair and rush to the door. 

"Have you ever kissed a boy, Sherlock?" Moriarty remained seated, only slightly craning his neck to his shoulder, voice eager, with just a hint of sarcasm. This gave Sherlock pause — he always had to have the last word. 

"Is that supposed to be _funny_?" His hand twitched over the doorknob. 

"Is it?"

"This is rather sloppy — I was impervious to the Woman's charms, what makes you think you could seduce me?"

"What can I say? I. Am. Sher. Locked." He winked, venom in his voice.

Sherlock felt his stomach drop to the floor; apparently his private life wasn't as private as he'd anticipated. He had known all along that the Woman was working for Moriarty, but he had greatly underestimated the lengthy and intimate extent to which his nemesis had been monitoring him. 

" _Answer_ ," he hissed, "What makes you think I'll fall for this?" 

"Because you defeated Ms. Adler. Took you longer than you would've wanted, but you did. But you see, our little game… neither of us can win. You _love_ it." 

"We're equal."

"Yes. And that isn't boring now, is it, my pet?" 

"You're assuming just because I haven't beaten you yet, I must have affections for you."

"Well… yes." 

"You're wrong."

"Am I? Or do you just want me to be?"

There was a loaded pause as Sherlock realized everything Moriarty said was right. _Every waking second of my life_ , he thought, _I crave excitement. Not what ordinary people would find exciting, of course, but_ real _mysteries._ _As much as I have shoved all idea of affection aside…_ He couldn't help but notice that the enigmatic James Moriarty pervaded his thoughts, _The one thing that has never let me down_. _Not once did he mess up, never did he allow me any knowledge that he hadn't carefully crafted._ It became increasingly difficult for Sherlock to breathe, his mind racing faster than his body could keep up, _And… he… James is a constant reminder of the thin, dangerous line I walk between justice and criminal… he forces me to question all of it. In all honesty, he_ is _perfect._  

Moriarty could read Sherlock's face, showing those shark-like teeth again, "Your problem is that you love yourself and the work. Happy birthday to you, I am as close to both as you're ever going to get! Of _course_ you love me." 

 _Basically, yes._ The thought smacked Sherlock in the face.

It was an uncommon event that he was left speechless; not even a snarky quip to be had. _Almost completely unheard of,_ he thought, fully aware of his shortcomings. As far as he knew, he had never fallen for the chemical waste that love marinated so many suffering souls in. Nevertheless, the concept, even if it weakened his judgement, had been more appealing ever since he met Watson.  

Yet, he had never felt any romantic inclination. People were too… _simple. Boring. Stupid_. No one understood what Sherlock needed. Oh so many things that the detective could pick apart, leading to people being _beneath_ his notice. 

But this wasn't Moriarty. He and Sherlock understood each other perfectly, they didn't feel… at least, not obviously. _And he knows it_ , Sherlock thought. More so, he knew the dark-haired man was his arch nemesis, but couldn't think of any compelling reason not to submit to his feelings. _Already_ feelings _are clouding my judgement_. _I_ should _be repulsed…_ But all he found was this intense elation — _This man is dangerous. No, he IS danger_ … However, it was no secret that Sherlock lived for risk. 

"Are we playing a game?" Sherlock asked, oblivious to normal human social interactions. 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Moriarty smirked, his flirtatious tone very… _inviting._

"I admit, I have enjoyed your games in the past."

"Well…" Moriarty's eyes still danced, but a sinister sheen clouded them, "I'm done playing." 

"Unfortunately for you, I won't make it that easy."

"Oh really? You're showing more initiative — I like that in a man." 

"Forgo the praise. My game is simple: if you really want me, you're going to have to find me." 

"Ohhhh, we're playing hide-and-seek? That's a good one." Moriarty licked his lips, "Best when played naked, don't you know?" 

"Focus!" 

"You're no fun." Moriarty fake-pouted, "But since I've already found you… does that mean I'm winning?"

"As I've said, I have places to be. I want to dismantle the work you've put out there in the world. But I don't want you to just hand me the information. I want you to make this another puzzle."

"You're going to hold your affections hostage for a game? Dangerous. What if I just surrender it?"

"Please." Sherlock scoffed, "It's never that simple. The game is this: you give me two clues that could potentially lead me to two _different_ schemes of yours. Then you give me 24 hours of a head start to parse out what they mean, choose which one to pursue, and get to where I need to go."

"Ahhhh… and then after a day, I must figure out which one you've taken, and where you'll be going." 

"Yes. When and _if_ you find me, we can do… whatever it is you're after. For as long as it takes me to solve it." 

Moriarty flashed his signature devious smile, standing up and walking uncomfortably close to Sherlock. Tensing up, Sherlock almost took defensive measures, _far too close_. Without warning, Moriarty's hand was caressing his cheek. Knowing the criminal was just going for shock value, Sherlock decided not to act on his desire to twist away. 

Leaning into his ear, Moriarty whispered, "I'll hold you to that."

Goosebumps puckered Sherlock's skin, both dread and delight creeped down his spine; he struggled to keep a deadpan face, "I'll be expecting a text." Moriarty pulled back, clearly satisfied with his victory, "Aww, no kiss goodbye?"

Opening the door, Sherlock had to suppress the urge to bolt down the hallway. 

 

**[later that evening]**

 

It was a balmy night — heavy cloud cover, no stars, vaguely warm; most would've called it muggy, by all accounts. Mycroft _insisted_ that Sherlock couldn't travel by plane, "Too dangerous, your face is plastered around all of England, little brother."

Sherlock grumbled, _people so rarely see what is right in front of them. I could have been in Paris three hours ago._ But Mycroft had bought him a ferry ticket and a private cabin, which Sherlock was conveniently forgetting to use. 

Standing on the ship's deck, breaking into a fresh pack of smokes, Sherlock's pocket buzzed. 

 

_Don't think I don't know I'm getting the raw end of the deal. But dear me, if the idea of being a player and not the game maker isn't novel. I feel like a schoolboy again. -JM_

 

He smiled. Perhaps the criminal mastermind felt exactly as he did when he was first offered an actual challenge. The clues came shortly afterward — two pictures. 

 

_Tick-tock, dear Sher-lock! -JM_

 

"30 minutes 'till docking." The ship's loudspeaker shouted, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts. Half an hour to catch his breath and try processing what was happening. The youngest Holmes had already picked the location from the pictures, all that was left was to secure plans. 

He shifted through his address book and hit the "Call" button. As the phone rang, he realized he had never been in a stranger situation, "Brother, dear…" 

 


	2. Mornings at Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny enough, this was actually the first chapter I wrote! I just had a really clear picture of Sherlock being suspicious of everything Jim did, waking being our most vulnerable times...

Waking was an interesting experience for the curly-haired hero; somewhere between the fleeting realms of consciousness and unconsciousness, it was the closest he got to being on drugs these days. Not even a cigarette was permitted since John and Mrs. Hudson ensured none of the vendors would ever sell to him (but hundreds of miles away in Bucharest, they would hardly know). Empirically, it was for the best, but it didn't change the discomfort he felt — his brain always buzzing like many, many hives of bees. 

Even now, Sherlock's pre-conscious high was being destroyed by over-thinking his despair at never being able to feel such things at will. It must've been around noon, and the sun was beating down on his face. He felt very heavy. 

It was nice to be in an actual bed again. It didn't matter much where Sherlock slept, but he had spent the previous 28 hours between ferries and trains. It was a simple one-bedroom apartment in Romania that Mycroft kept on reserve for his diplomatic travels. _The lengths he will go to in order to ensure Moriarty's destruction…_  

Trying to turn on his side, he wondered if he had lost all control over himself — he was dead weight. Yes, he felt very heavy indeed. Except this wasn't contained — this was an external source of mass and… _warmth_? It was then that he realized that he wasn't alone, causing his whole body to tense. This had the side effect of tipping off his bedmate that he was awake. 

"Morning, tiger." Moriarty purred, snarling a little bit in his ear to add emphasis. A very light, but resounding _shmek_ hit Sherlock's ears, eyes popping open. _What just happened?_ He knew that he had just been kissed on the cheek, but the scenario was just too strange for him to register. Affection. Adoration. These were things he expected from Molly Hooper. But James Moriarty… 

"Four hours. You're quick." Glued in the same position, he was relieved to see they were both in bedclothes. Moriarty shrugged, "I had the benefit of using planes. Fake identities are kind of my speciality. That, and a few of my clients are more than willing to lend me their private jets."

"How did you know I'd choose Romania?" 

"Because I knew you wouldn't choose Germany. Not yet, at least. Not while your nearest and dearest still maintain some hope you're alive." 

"That wasn't fair."

"Nooooo." 

Sherlock bit his lip; of course the rules never said he needed to be fair, but deliberate manipulation of the situation, and withholding information… Certainly it _was_ obvious that he'd never pick somewhere so close to home. "Re-thinking your rules?" Moriarty asked, tracing a pattern on his beloved's chest. Silence. "Please forgive me, I'll make it more challenging next time." 

Sighing, the detective finally looked at Moriarty, "You picked this location, knowing I'd be drawn to this one immediately. But you also picked it because it will take at least a month to solve. And you know we'd be… _together_ , as long as I'm sedentary." 

"Mmmm… excellent. Daddy's rightly impressed."  

"I won't fall for something like this again."

"I won't try." He picked up the violinist's hand and began slowly kissing his slender fingers. 

Reflexively, Sherlock jerked his hand away, "I have work to do." He turned on his side, pulling the covers over his face.

A few moments passed, Moriarty did nothing, letting his dearest companion brood. He quickly tired of this, "It seems like 'work' to you is laying in bed. But I shouldn't encourage the man who's trying to take down my empire… I'm going to make some tea, would you like some?" 

In response, he got a hand wave, shooing him. He shrugged, "Fine, be like that. Sexy anyway." After he left, the detective pulled out his phone and searched "James Moriarty." 

It was all rather mundane — professor, accredited, genius, mathematician, got his Master's in four years, yada, yada, yada. But there was no real history — he may as well have plopped onto this planet when he began working. Not so much as a high school yearbook shot. "Got in and deleted the files…" Sherlock muttered, "I can't say I'm surprised…" he sat up and dropped the phone on the ground. 

"Surprised about what, sweetheart?" Moriarty reentered the room, a mug in each of his hands. "Nothing." He snapped.

Handing him a saucer, Moriarty tried not to show his concern, "Sorry I asked."

Sherlock didn't take it, instead choosing to glare at the smaller man as if _he_ were the problem. Sighing, Moriarty decided not to antagonize him further, attempting to set the cup on the bedside table.

Abruptly stopping his hand, Sherlock sniffed the cup, "Did you poison the sugar?" Moriarty rolled his eyes, "Come now, Sherlock, this isn't going work unless you stop obsessing over the idea I'm trying to kill you."

"No, of course not, you'd never do something so obvious." Sherlock mused, taking the saucer. 

"Are you _listening_?" Moriarty asked, sitting at the foot of the bed, taking a sip. Obviously it would take more time for the sleuth to trust him, despite the fact he had never done anything so ham-fisted to kill him. No, killing him would be artful and deliberate. _Shouldn't he know that by now?_

"Maybe it's the spoon…" Sherlock picked up the stirring spoon gingerly, inspecting it from every angle. 

"Would you like me to taste-test it first?" Moriarty responded somewhere between comfort and sarcasm. 

"No. If you were to poison me, you'd have taken the antidote in preparation."

"Well, if that's true, there would still be traces of it on my lips… why don't you come have a taste?"

Sherlock froze; there were times in which a possum-like defense was the best move. Was this truly a come-on?  Or was he giving him a hint? _Yes, it must be a hint._ "Ah!" He set his tea on the nightstand and took Moriarty's, "Two cups. One has the poison, one has the antidote." 

In truth, there was no poison, but the irishman was now acutely aware that his gestures would be scrutinized by the detective, at least for a few weeks, "Why would I try to poison your sustenance when I know you wouldn't trust anything I gave you?"

"You're trying so hard to prove your commitment to this little act you have… killing me seems easier."

"Aww, Sherlock, you think I'm acting? That really hurts." 

Holmes saw it, but only for a second — his begrudged companion's facial expressions were often cartoonish, including the overly pouting sad face he displayed right now. But for a moment, microseconds, even, he saw genuine inner toil. Pain radiated off of his face. Had Sherlock really hurt him? Did he even have that power? _No_ , he thought, _James Moriarty is far too untouchable. No one_ ever _gets to_ him _._

Except he wasn't. He was right _there_. Instinctively, Sherlock lifted his hand, lightly caressing Jim's face. _Yes, he is certainly touchable…_ he thought, _And very warm. My hands must be freezing._ The shorter man decided not to respond to this out-of-the-blue contact, other than maintaining eye-contact, understanding that things would have to progress much slower than he'd have liked. 

But even this small display of affection on the detective's part made his head buzz as he struggled to keep a straight face.

 _My dearest Sherlock_ , he thought, _It's truly a pity._ He lifted his hand to touch the one on his cheek — while the skin was icy cold, he couldn't help but feel a rush of heat as his hand enveloped his companion's. This wasn't rejected outright — the detective was tense, but didn't pull away. "This isn't so bad, is it?" The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched, but said nothing. 

 _It's okay_ , Moriarty thought, _I know you only smile when you're faking it._


	3. Progress

"I'll be needing another hint." Sherlock said, staring at the wall. They were the first words involving the case he had said since they arrived three days ago.

"Have you been trying to find a lead this entire time?" The criminal was sprawled out on the couch, reading scraps of Holmes' old notes, "I can't imagine your super brain hasn't picked up on _anything_ yet." _On the other hand, these notes on the coagulation of saliva post-mortem are quite nasty. I wonder if he'll have body parts in our fridge anytime soon?_ Before he could stop it, he had unintentionally thought in the plural possessive. _"Our,"_ he mused, _Doesn't sound so terribly bad._

"In truth, I haven't been looking." Sherlock confessed, "I've been wanting to see if you'd summon them, or lead me to them. But you aren't that sloppy, I shouldn't have been so hopeful."

"Mmm. No. I can't believe you would think so little of me."

"I'd have thought you would've at least stepped out for a walk…" _I could murder a smoke_.

"Like you, my dear, I can be cooped up for extensive periods of time while I lie in wait." He stood up and crossed the room to Sherlock, "Besides," he tilted up the brunette's jaw, "Why would I leave when there are so many more interesting things in here? Well…" The gap between their faces decreased to about an inch, "Just one."

Seconds passed by painfully, elongated like hours. Moriarty had no intention of actually kissing the detective; he was more interested in testing the waters. So far nothing had happened — it was better than flinching away in disgust, but no response wasn't great either. 

"I'm still waiting on that hint." Sherlock's voice was steady, albeit lower than usual, like it was a true endeavor to maintain it. 

"That wasn't part of the deal." Moriarty said, completely unflappable, "But I could be… _convinced_ … otherwise." The jaunt he added to that word sent a shudder up the captive man's spine.

Sherlock sighed — he wasn't entirely opposed to the idea of a kiss, but the idea of his first kiss being with a super villain would be wrong by societal standards. They _had_ been sleeping in the same bed since arrival, Moriarty initiating any and all physical contact. 

Sherlock had been trying to keep mental distance, but he couldn't deny the attraction. Despite his previous assessment that romance and love were deadly weaknesses, _It might actually be enjoyable. At least… for a time._

"What do you want?" He asked for the sake of show, but both men knew the answer to that.

On cue, Moriarty leaned forward and their lips met. It was a different experience for each party — for Moriarty, it was another kiss with someone he adored. It wasn't the same as the others, of course: Sherlock was by far the most interesting person he had ever encountered, not to mention the hottest. For once, he felt connection.

Sherlock, on the other hand, felt sparks. His pulse quickened. His chest squirmed. It was awkward, it being a new feeling. And he couldn't deny that no matter how gentle or normal of an act, he was pressing his face into someone else's. There wasn't a burning need as he had often read about, and he couldn't see why Watson was so obsessed with physicality. 

But he wanted to explore this more. Truly, Moriarty was the most dangerous being he had ever met; why did he have to be a certified genius? Why did he have to be the one that enjoyed intellectual battles? _Why does he have to be the only one who understands what I need? Furthermore, why does he have to be the one to_ give _it all to me? With such gusto?_

As Jim backed away, Sherlock felt moderately unsatisfied. Something had definitely been awoken in him, but was that all? He wanted more, but didn't dare ask for it, "And my hint?"

Grinning, Moriarty went back to the sofa, "Cyanide."

Holmes' mind was still reeling from the kiss, but he began working through the white noise. _Suicide? Murder? Assassins? Some sort of drug distilling ring?_ Sherlock pressed his fingertips together, staring at the wall again. A few hours passed, Moriarty went between notes and watching the wheels in Sherlock's head turn. _Mmm… sexy. Poor virgin, so deprived_ _—_

Sherlock jumped up, interrupting Moriarty's sure-to-be-impure thoughts, "I'm going out."

"Hit some huge revelation?"

"No, I'm going to buy smokes."

"I have some."

"I don't want them."

"You're going to look for leads, aren't you?"

"Always."

"Return to me soon."

"That's a loose term."

Sherlock threw his peacoat on and strode out the door. Moriarty sighed, going back to reading the nearly illegible notes.

After he was sure he was alone, he let out a sigh of adoration, "My darling Sherlock, how I love to watch you dance." 

 

 

**[Six hours later, 2230]**

 

 

The front door burst open, waking Jim, still lying on the couch. _Mmm, must've nodded off._ "Sherlock?" He called, hoping the door hadn't just been kicked in by one of his various employees. 

With a flourish, Sherlock did indeed appear, "That was interesting."

He flipped the lights on and Moriarty cringed, "It burns!" 

"Feel the pain, we have things to discuss."

"Ugh, can it wait until tomorrow?"

"No."

"Fine, talk." He sat up, rubbing his eyes. 

"First off, I was under the impression your reach was weaker the farther I got from England. I was wrong. Forgive me." 

"Apology accepted, can we snuggle?" The offer was sarcastic, but he'd have been happy if the detective went for it anyway.

"Secondly, I spent all day scouring cafes and seedy alleys, and I've come to the conclusion that you have many irons in this pot. But your clue pertained to the ring of mercenaries that your network has been training."

"Good, good. Is that a, 'no' on the snuggling?"

"Cyanide, used to commit suicide in the event of capture or failure. But this isn't what its about — your ring is chemical synthesizers, distilling cures for deadly poisons, most namely for the purer forms of cyanide. Entire banquets wiped out, yet whomever you want saved will have pre-taken the antidote, perhaps slipped to them. Thus, framing them, or at least making them the most likely suspect." 

"It's certainly suspicious." 

"Meanwhile, your killers don't even need to be there." 

"How'd you get all of this?"

"Because it's how you tried to poison me a few mornings ago!"

"Ugh! I did not _poison_ those cups!"

"Ah, but you didn't deny my other findings."

Moriarty inhaled deeply, "You're correct." He stretched, trying to shake the sleep away, "Is that all?" _I suppose we don't have to snuggle…_ Devilish thoughts tiptoed into his brain.

Sherlock paced, throwing his hands in the air, "I have more!" Leaning on the armrest of the couch, he vaguely listened as Holmes the younger spouted on about how he was planning on framing the general for a massacre occurring in 12 days, that he only had 8 days to stop. 

"Mhmm…" Moriarty hummed, eyes closed. Sherlock hardly noticed, talking more to himself at this point. Finally, after about 20 minutes of rambling, James stood up and dusted himself off, considering his next move. He swooped forward and pressed the detective against the wall, effectively shutting him up. 

So engrossed in his findings, the entrapped man hadn't even noticed Moriarty stand, thus was caught completely off guard.

"I was trying to think." Sherlock wheezed. 

"Mmm and honey you were doing a great job. But this isn't a time for words."

"Then what?"

"You know." 

That smile. That creepy, lascivious smile. It never meant anything good or innocent. Sherlock couldn't move, but he wasn't sure why — certainly, he could overpower Moriarty, his stature far slimmer than his own, and Sherlock's combat training a little more extensive. No, he was paralyzed with the thrill — on the cusp of a major case, one he could solve, if only with a little more impending doom, which would be present in a matter of days. 

On top of all that, his taboo "relationship" with Jim seemed much sweeter — the criminal mastermind at his finest, presenting an intricately woven plan for Sherlock to cut to shreds. Despite all of that, he had absolute tenderness for this malevolent man. And it was reciprocated. Heart swelling with the thrill of the chase, he leaned forward first. 

"Mmm, Sherlock, this is a pleasant surprise." Moriarty murmured against his lips, voice absolutely brimming with felicity. But there was no response, just another kiss, slowly growing deeper.

This went on for about ten minutes before Sherlock broke it off, "That's enough." He pushed him back, inching his way against the wall to the bedroom. 

Frustration spilled across Moriarty's face — his fatigue had abruptly faded, and _now_ the detective wanted to sleep? _Just this once_ , he thought, _I'll let you have your way. But next time… oh, next time, my love, we will play by_ my _rules._ In the cover of absolute darkness, he let his naughty thoughts show on his face.


	4. Deductions

"Bored!" Sherlock cried, pacing in the living room. Without an established homeless network so far away from England, he needed to catch his own bits of information, which was difficult to do in the middle of the night.

"It's 3am, sweetie." Moriarty said, relishing in the detective's fervent pacing, "You might consider sleeping, it makes the working hours come by much quicker." 

"Sleeping is boring!"

"Is pacing boring?" 

"Better than nothing!"

"Are you always this wired?"

"Aren't you?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Is _that_ a yes?"

Jim huffed, "No, I occasionally like to sit down, check my emails, wreak some havoc, arrange some murders, break in the most secure places in England, snuggle, attempt to make-out with my boyfriend…" 

Somewhere along the list Sherlock had tuned out and missed the more flirty aspects, which Moriarty noticed and began to pout. _Fine_ , he thought, _Let's see if I can keep your interest._ "How about we play deductions?" 

This snapped Sherlock out of his fit — it was a childhood and adolescent game he played with Mycroft. He wasn't sure if Moriarty was referencing this specifically, but if it was _anything_ like it, it was an excellent distraction. "You want me to deconstruct you?" He sat down and pressed his fingers together.

"Mmm. I want you to _try._ " Moriarty winked, having the desired effect of drawing in all of Sherlock's beautiful thoughts, "Why?" His mind raced, words appearing around him, flitting past his vision, either from previous experience, or from what he saw now —

 

_Impeccable grooming_

 

_Attention to detail_

 

_Insomniac_

 

_High self-esteem, making up for inner discontent_

 

_Unhappy childhood_

 

_Possible eating disorder? Resolved._

 

_Murder_

 

"Because, my dear Sherlock… emotional intimacy is important too." This excited him, but not as much as Sherlock's "working face" did. 

Then the curly-haired man began to spout, "Starting with your childhood, I know you killed Carl Powers while you were still in elementary school. This is uncommon — most killers start by torturing animals and move onto full blown murder when they have autonomy. No, you were experienced, you had purpose. He made fun of you, and based on your high voice, attention to grooming, somewhat whimsical mannerisms and being openly gay I'm inclined to believe this pattern of bullying continued into high school. You never had friends, but you certainly made enemies. Everyone who wasn't you was 'them,' part of the inferior world that you weren't included in, because you were special. And 'they' became the ordinary people you see today. But even back then, you had outstanding charm, so you had the adults hooked, but the children always knew there wasn't something quite right with you.

"But that didn't matter — your teachers adored you and wrote you excellent letters of recommendation, coupled with your outstanding grades, allowing you to get into a very prestigious university. And judging by that that lower-middle class Dublin accent that you've mostly covered up, with a scholarship. But back to the murder… this was something you were familiar with and comfortable with — this was intimate… close to home. So someone close to you must've died. No! Not died. Killed. Killed by someone else close to you, since it's not an act you abhor, but instead see as a tool to get your way. Most people in your situation would become people of justice, but to you, murder is the same as dying of old age. No, you respected this in some twisted way. This leads me to believe it was your father — shot in the dark, but men are more likely to be aggressive. You consciously see him as a wretched man for _most likely_ killing your mother, but all of you had a close relationship beforehand. He served prison time and you became orphaned, but you never blamed him for that.

"Moving on — you were orphaned around adolescence, this helped feed your need for control that translates strongly today. Based on how skinny you are, you were most likely anorexic — controlling your own hunger, mastering yourself… coupled with the thought that you could get away with murder at any time, you were master of your world and the one beyond you. Even today, you eat very little, but you're no longer in it for the thrill — it's just a habit.

"Your outward persona is confident and understands that you are powerful, alive and beautiful. You even feel that way on the inside, and know you are absolutely justified in all you do — the side of evil isn't a big deal, in fact, it's a contest. And you have to be the best, to show up everyone who ever doubted you. You get bored, but when you get bored you begin to think you aren't good enough. Staying still means 'they' will catch up to you. Most nights we've been together I've noticed you don't sleep — your breathing patterns and heart rate betray you, either too quick or erratic for a resting human body of your caliber of fitness. No… you just don't want me to know that behind those closed eyes, you can't shut off the thoughts… and how am I doing?"

James' face hadn't moved at all during this tirade, made neutral as possible as to not give away any hints. It was clear to him that Holmes had deduced most of these things about him from previous knowledge, either putting it together beforehand or just now. 

It didn't settle well with him that Sherlock had learned so much from what he thought he had done a good job of hiding. His first instinct was to be angry — no one was allowed to know these things about him. He had _killed_ for lesser offenses, but this was _Sherlock_. Moriarty huffed a little — he was furious, but he _had_ asked for this.

"Thank you for pointing out the flaws in my shroud," he smiled, "Helps me prevent others from gleaning that information. Though, I suppose, you _are_ special… both in intelligence, and the fact that not many others get the privilege of watching me eat and sleep. It's as if you actually _do_ care."

Sherlock blushed — he hadn't realized how intimate he had been with Moriarty, or that without that intimacy he'd never have gotten half of that. It seemed that his interest went deeper than the casual observations of a new toothbrush or recent changes in habits. It also seemed like he had become increasingly enamored with the irishman as he kept talking. "But am I right?"

Jim flashed a deadly smile, "Why would I confirm anything, knowing it'll drive you crazy being in the dark?" Sherlock twitched, struggling with the irritation. 

"Actually," the criminal continued, "Why don't I say that you were _mostly_ right, but I won't tell you how you were _wrong_?" The detective's blood boiled — there was little worse for him than knowing he was 99% right. 

"Fine. What have you figured out about me?" He spat, now needing an outlet. 

Again, Moriarty answered with that evil grin, "Plenty, Sherlock." Their eyes met, locked in a mental battle, Sherlock stewing in disgruntlement, Moriarty reveling in his pain — how much more could he take? 

Turns out, not much — Sherlock leapt up, "Thank you for that, but I just had a jolt of brilliance." 

"Just one?"

"Several. I need to see how they play out. Now."

Without another word, he bounded out of the house. Moriarty sighed, "See you soon." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By no means am I a consulting detective, so my deductions could have absolutely no realism to them. Besides... apparently the dear writers of the show have some issues with Moriarty they need to work out on their own *hmph*


	5. Blood Rush

It had been about a week since Moriarty saw Sherlock last, but that didn't mean he had been sedentary. To the contrary, the criminal mastermind had been (through the internet) all over the world, organizing everything from petty murders back in England to orchestrating the overthrow of the Egyptian dictatorship. But it was all just a distraction — his biggest challenge had been gone far too long, busy putting out other fires. _Booooring._  

As a self-imposed rule, he had avoided interfering with the detective's work, either by contacting him while out or using his network to further fuel the case he was on. _It would be cheating just to tell them who's hunting them… and it might end up with them hurting my precious Sherlock._ He chuckled, _But then again, if he can't figure out the real case, we might be here forever!_

The various hit-men stationed around the city were fierce, but the real prize was getting the the chemists; without them, the assassins weren't anything more than garden variety killers, and might even go back to their previous lives as farmers or laborers. 

Still, reveling in his own genius and coasting on the high that Sherlock might be figuring this all this out was hardly a substitute for his company. And while he was loathe to admit it, James grew lonely. He pulled out his phone.

 

 _Thinking of you._ _-JM_

 

But dare he send it? _That'd be breaking a rule._ Not that Sherlock would ever know about these rules. No. Strong feelings for the genius sociopath were one thing, but chaste schoolgirl antics? That wasn't Jim. _I will not be domesticated… perhaps something more callous?_  

 

_DTF? ;) -JM_

 

 _Maybe that's too forward… Ugh! How could he be so infuriating without even being around?_ James Moriarty had never questioned himself before. And yet, there he sat, being undone by a text message he may or may not send. 

Fortunately, his train of thought was interrupted by a crash in the doorway, "You know, if you keep kicking it open, it's going to break off." He taunted, setting aside his festering annoyance. 

"Done!" Sherlock cried, elatedly stomping through the hall to the living room, an uncomfortable sticking sound following him, "You should've _seen_ that! I was _on_ _fire!_ " 

"Agh! Were you _really_? You're bleeding everywhere." Moriarty leapt up with a fright: Sherlock was clutching his right shoulder, blood pouring out of a deep gash, white shirt half-ripped off and now dyed an eerie shade of crimson. Taking more of him in, James could see Sherlock's hair was plastered to his head with blood that didn't appear to be his. 

It's not that Jim had a problem with blood — on the contrary, he got a perverse pleasure out the particularly messier jobs, so long as he hadn't physically done the dirty work — it was that it was _Sherlock's_ blood. Not even a month ago, he would've been giddy at the sight of the brutalized detective, but seemingly from nowhere, a defensive knot tied itself in his chest.

 _Other than that,_ James thought, _He sees to have escaped alright — just a few scratches here and there, mild bruising around the site of the main wound._ But no, there didn't appear to be any burns, so his quip was most likely a brag. 

"Don't bother cleaning up — that's Mycroft's problem." Sherlock whipped what remained of his coat off and began raving, "Assassins! Poison! Diplomats! Ahh, it feels so great to be back in the game!" 

"That's not what I meant!" Moriarty snapped, grabbing Sherlock's right hand and dragging him close to examine the wound — about four inches, running diagonally to his sternum — it didn't hit the bone, but it would definitely leave a nasty scar, "Were you _grappling_ with one of them? You _doofus_ , they're trained killers!" _This will need stitches._

Perplexed, Holmes watched as the smaller man fetched a first aid kit, "I thought you wanted me to win?" _Why is he so angry?_ He was set on the couch, Jim tending to the gaping hole in his shoulder, tugging at his shirt, "Take this off." Sherlock didn't protest, the blood beginning to dry and itch, throwing the torn fabric on the ground. Sacrificing a rag, Jim managed to clean most of the blood away.

Ringing silence fell in the room as he applied disinfectant — the sting made Sherlock want to chatter on to distract himself, but sensed he had upset the criminal. 

"You may feel some discomfort… would you like something to bite down on?" The playfulness was there in words and a crooked smile, but Moriarty's voice was hollow, gesturing to the needle and silk resting between his fingers. 

Sherlock shook his head — he had never gotten stitches before, and he still wasn't entirely sure he trusted the criminal. But as the first stitch was in progress, a stabbing pain sucked the air out of his lungs, he realized he didn't have much of a choice. Unable to hold it in through the burn, Sherlock began to rave about the fight anyway. "Easily three on one at any given time, maybe more!" 

There had been others in the hideout, but most of them fled. It was easy to deduce that the chemists were the true foe, but they had apparently heard whispers of authority coming to reap them, and had instructed the assassins to be bodyguards. "Wits against knives, it was a great triumph!" Sherlock kept prattling on until the last stitch was done. 

Finally, the task at hand finished, Moriarty broke, "You could've died!"

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look, "I know! That's half the fun!"

"I'm serious."

"Wasn't that the point? Real danger? The game is _on!_ I have never been happier!" 

Sherlock wasn't lying; a flame danced in his eyes, consuming the boredom and anguish of leaving his old life behind. Then what was this feeling? A pang of longing and dread spread through Moriarty, flowing and burning like dense saltwater. He knew surviving by being clever was how the detective got his kicks; that's how they had run their adversarial relationship until now, and if nothing else, Moriarty wanted him happy. 

But the previous games, with the exception of the pool and seeking out the Golem (which was of the detective's own deviance from the plan), Moriarty had always seen to it that Sherlock wouldn't get hurt. This was supposed to be the same — a mind game, a puzzle of deduction, not running around and getting stabbed.

 _You will not domesticate me, Sherlock,_ he thought with more force than before, shaking his head, "Never mind. Just… come here." Again, he tugged at Sherlock, the detective's head now resting in the crook of his neck.

For awhile they sat there, leaning in to each other, Sherlock finally quiet. Heart pulsing rapidly from his exciting night, his mind soared through thoughts, deconstructing his feelings. _This could be okay…_ he thought, allowing more of his weight to rest on Jim, pulling his legs up on the couch. 

Shifting until they were comfortable, Sherlock was now lying on top of him, arms around each other, face still tucked in Jim's neck, who was gently stroking his curls. It was somewhat awkward, seeing as he was completely topless, while Jim was wearing dress pants and a button-up shirt. He considered asking to get dressed, but Sherlock doubted he'd let him up.

A dull ache began to surface, the adrenaline beginning to wear off as the mended gash made itself known. _This might delay further investigations…_

"I care." He murmured, causing Moriarty to smile, "Oh yeah? About the dangerous psychopath?" 

"Yes." 

"How _ordinary_."

"You too."

Moriarty turned his head, pecking Sherlock's lips, causing his mind to blank and the pain in his shoulder all but vanishing. Eyes locked, the two men just stared, a half-smile on the deviant's face. The detective wanted to lean in, to continue the kiss, to generate the internal buzz, but he knew that this time would be different. Up until this point, he had been disconnected — feelings either coming from the case or from Moriarty — but this wasn't borrowed at all. If he kissed him, it would force him to acknowledge his own feelings — the heart that Jim once asserted that he had was there, speeding up for him now. 

An impossibly long amount of time later, Sherlock returned the kiss, but didn't break away. The pain in his shoulder was intermittent, but what wasn't being caught by the endorphins was easily distracted by Moriarty's oddly soft lips. It was strange — supposedly he was a heartless, soulless man, incapable of love or any fondness. At least by reputation. 

Yet, here he was, consulting criminal mastermind, showing undeniable vulnerability and compassion. _Perhaps I would feel like this more if there were others like me…_ but for now, he realized, there was only _Moriarty_. 

Kissing intensified. It was astounding how his body rewarded this behavior — the pain in his shoulder was completely gone, his body demanding more and more, producing the chemical weakness he had done a very good job of shunning. The pain turned into a burn, but it wasn't isolated to his shoulder; instead it began coursing through his veins, everywhere. Was his body really on fire? But this didn't hurt — this was desire, and he knew it would only turn into pain if he stopped. Desperation. _Since when do I feel desperation?_ He almost felt ashamed, but the chemicals fought away negative emotions, only letting him feel the _need_ for more.

If only he could've read minds, Sherlock would have been comforted to know that his partner was feeling the exact same thing. 

Moriarty had been in physical relationships before, even sexual, but he had never felt things as passionately. They were all _toys_ , beyond his notice, but not able to escape their petty feelings for him. He didn't need _them_ the way he needed _Sherlock_ ; they were the same, cut from the same cloth, etc, etc. If they hadn't grown up in such radically different environments they might've been exactly the same in mission as well. 

 _The demons didn't choose me, Sherlock,_ he thought, _But the angels definitely chose you._ But these ideas were on a continuum, not points in a void. It all connected, just as they did. 

Soon he had no space of mind to think such profound thoughts; Sherlock had begun a full-on assault on his mouth. He didn't mind this at all, in fact, he was filled with elation at the idea that Sherlock wanted him too. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock was blinded with desire, his brain unable to comprehend all of these new feelings. It was as if a slow-going strobe light was firing in the room; his brain was only getting brief snapshots. _When did Jim's shirt come off? Where did the pain in my shoulder go?_ _My pulse is through the roof…_ Moriarty's lips crashed into his, throwing himself over Sherlock on the bed. 

Overall for Sherlock, nothing about the experience was painful, or even unwanted. But he'd be remiss to say nothing was wrong with it: it was so… foreign. Uncomfortable at points. Yet this was a drug like no other: the years he spent strung out on cocaine, his experimentation with all sorts of chemical substance… hell, he even majored in chemistry to learn how to get a better fix. 

 _But this! Moriarty._ His mind dared not extend outside this room. Finally, he had some respite from his unceasing powers of analysis. 

Time… what time was it? Naked and gasping, he curled under his lover's arm, Jim's fingers twisted errantly in his curls.

"I'm sorry." Moriarty said, slowly letting sleep claim his consciousness.

"For what?" Sherlock asked, feeling the serotonin wash over him.

"You seem like you were really happy today. I shouldn't have let my worries ruin that."

"Definitely not ruined."

"No?"

"Nope."


	6. The Afterglow

It was going to be a good day. Jim was lush with triumph — after years of knowing Sherlock, he felt as though he had finally seen behind the mask. _Delicious moments on the detective's face when he was thinking of absolutely nothing,_ Moriarty thought, refusing to open his eyes, trying to hold on to his mental screen captures of his lover from the previous evening, _Wonder how he's feeling…_ Reaching over to cuddle Sherlock, his hand groped only air. 

The detective's side of the bed was cold. Moriarty frowned, "Oh, you're _devious_." He said, halfway between pride and annoyance. He knew what this was. _How much of a head start does he have?_

Right on cue, his phone buzzed. 

 

_Won't be needing clues this time. I've had something in mind for a while now. Hint enclosed. Ball's in your court. -SH_

 

Moriarty rolled his eyes, _Already changing the rules, I see_. He looked at the snapshot he was sent — child's play. Apparently, dear Sherlock was headed for New Delhi… _Ugh,_ _I so did not pack for hot weather…_

 

_Oh, and you don't have to wait twenty four hours this time. I'm already where I need to be. Cheers. -SH_

 

In a way, Jim was all sorts of impressed — he figured the detective would change after sex. He thought there would be more pliantness, that Sherlock would be more _bonded_ to him. No, he was _exactly_ the same. Detached as ever, albeit maybe more playful. 

 _What_ ever _was I thinking?_ Moriarty smirked, beginning to get dressed, _If he changed, he wouldn't be the Sherlock I fell in love with… he'd get_ boring. He stretched out, _Well. Sherlock fired the starting gun._ He opened a new text to his second-in-command, Sebastian Moran:

 

_I'll be needing a car to swing by and take me to the airport. -JM_

 

_Sure thing, boss. -SM_

 

Jim smiled — as much as he admired Sherlock's ingenuity, getting around without the extensive resources being a criminal mastermind afforded him, he couldn't help but a sense of power whenever he _used_ it. _Wonder how he does it? Just sheer charm and sneakiness? Hot!_ Truly, the idea of Sherlock being _charming_ to everyone else was so beautiful; as a fellow sociopath, he knew the "niceness" was reserved for using people. _He's got all the mannerisms and ingredients to come to my side… he just_ chooses _to be good. Bother._ The car came around, Moriarty arranged for his plane ticket online, and shot another text to Moran.

 

_Oh, and I'll need the address to the government's safe house in New Delhi. -JM_

 

_Might take a couple hours, but I should have it before you touch the ground again. -SM_

 

_It's going to be at *least* twelve hours. Make sure of it. -JM_

 

**[Twenty-four hours later]**

 

Sherlock arrived at the safe house around noon the following day. New Delhi. Through Mycroft, he had caught wind of an extensive string of suspicious murders all throughout India with Moriarty's invisible name written all over them. 

The house was nothing special, it had been built during the craze of building more "western" housing. It was apparently very fashionable for the wealthy to break away from the more humble traditions. Still, there was an air of hindu influence — incense, heavily beaded silk throw pillows — Mycroft only did such cliche things to _annoy_ Sherlock. But the set-up was similar to the previous place: one bedroom, one bath, living room, kitchen that he'd rarely use. He kicked off his shoes at the door. 

He was utterly exhausted, and was neither motivated or empowered to begin the case. _Tomorrow._ He unsuspectingly walked into the living room. 

"Hello, honey. Enjoy your trip?" Moriarty's dulcet tones caressed his ears. 

After getting over the initial shock, Sherlock fought not to roll his eyes, " _How_ ," he spat, "Did you get here _before_ me?" 

"I'm psychic." They were suddenly standing face-to-face, "Also, _planes_." He seemed quite bored at this assertion — he _had_ told Sherlock before, after all. 

"Yes, I _must_ learn how to use those things at some point." 

There was an uncomfortable pause — Moriarty still sitting somewhere between pissed off and impressed. Pissed off that he was left. Pissed off that Sherlock had changed the rules. Pissed off that it seemed the detective was _surprised_ Moriarty decided to continue the game. But positively impressed, that after all of this, Sherlock could still stay so detached, _I'll have to fix that_.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had forgotten about the case altogether. He assumed that Moriarty had, to be crass, "gotten what he wanted" and then some. While James slept, Sherlock worked out that he didn't _need_ the criminal's help in destroying the web — he had vague instructions from Mycroft himself that would easily carry him through the process. No, the consulting duo's alignment from this point on would have to be about _companionship_ rather than _convenience_. _James definitely doesn't want that_ … Sherlock felt some sadness at the idea, he had come to like having his presence. But he couldn't change Moriarty. 

In the morning, Sherlock decided leaving was the kindest option for both of them; no sticky fumbling with awkward dialogue and promises they weren't interested in. He had expected not to be followed afterward, content to leave the situation as it was.

Except James seemed to be sincere. _Real affection? Talk about novelty._ "So… this is happening?" 

"Of course." 

"I don't need hints from you; I've it worked out myself."

"Oh, right. Figured that out a few hours ago. Meaning _you_ have been playing _me_ this whole time!"

"Something like that."

"That's… evil."

"I prefer to think of it as 'morally ambiguous.'"

"Semantics, dear."

"Alignments, dear."

"Well. _Playing_ me. Hmm… No one's allowed to do that. I'd be tempted to punish you if I weren't so impressed. I still might. So really, I must ask: why would you do _that_?"

"Because I wanted to. I wanted to get to know you, but on _my_ terms." 

"And? What did your research show?" Moriarty's face had lit up at the idea of Sherlock _wanting_ to examine him. 

"I like having you around."

"Don't get _too_ sappy now." James rolled his eyes.

"It's true. But you're free to leave all the same." 

"Honey, I believe I've made a few things clear. One of which is that _I_ ," he paused, weaving a hand into Sherlock's curls, " _Can't_ leave you alone."

"It's settled then."

"Mhm. I'll do this as long as you will."

They kissed to seal the deal. It was all very sweet, Sherlock still in a daze, marveling at the idea that _Moriarty_ could care about another human being. _Or that_ I _can_ , "I'm exhausted." Sherlock said, gasping away from the lip-lock. 

Jim just smiled, "Then let's go to bed."

And so it went on for the next two years… 


	7. Epilogue: The Serbian Dilemma

It was any other summer's afternoon in Budapest for James Moriarty — he had no earthly business being there, not even a decent spot of crime to be spoken of. But as it had been for the past 24 months, he found himself wandering all about Eurasia, tracking his on-again, off-again boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes. Sitting in a foreign living room, he had gotten confirmation that Sherlock was asleep upstairs. But it was far too quite. Sherlock was never this quite, even when asleep. 

As was his trademark whenever he found him, he approached silently, making sure he was undetectable until he was right up on him. Sherlock was sitting in a chair facing the wall, deep in thought. "Something on your mind, my dear?" He asked in a singsong voice. Without so much as a flinch of surprise, as he was never surprised, responded, deadpan, "Mycroft will be coming for me within a matter of days."

And suddenly, James found himself losing his playful stupor, eyebrows raised in alarm. But as the other man wasn't facing him, he hadn't picked up on this change in demeanor, Moriarty's voice remaining unchanged, "Oh? How can you be sure?"

"It's been two years. I'm surprised it hasn't happened already. But no… I've gotten some reports of a disturbance of power in Serbia."

"Mmm… so you suspect in the scuffle, he has somehow snuck in?"

"I think he caused it so one of his agents could sneak in — Mycroft never gets his hands dirty if he can avoid it."

"Ghastly. I see now my choice in brothers was correct — you never take a middleman if you can avoid it. Unless it's boring."

"Unless its boring."

"Does that mean you'll be going back to London?"

"Yes. Mycroft has gone through the trouble of summoning me, I should do him the courtesy of at least showing up."

"Well…" Moriarty stood up, "I guess that means our little game is over." 

"Yes." 

"I assume you're leaving _now_."

"Why do you assume that?"

"Because you would only tell me this moments beforehand… you wouldn't want me trying to convince you to stay."

"You're in luck — I've already had the conversation for you. I'm going." 

"I know." 

Sherlock took off his coat, revealing that he had been wearing ragged shorts and a sweat-stained t-shirt, "I have to look the part, you see." Moriarty nodded — he already knew Sherlock planned to be taken prisoner. Surely causing some sort of security breach, pretending to be a vagrant or a spy was the quickest way to flag down Mycroft. 

"I don't know if I'll survive, but…"

"If you're worried for you life, you could just _phone_ him."

"If it were that easy, he'd have done it first. And before you say anything more, just… just let me say what I need to." 

"Regrets, dear?" James asked, winking as salaciously as he could. Sherlock just gave a withering stare, wordlessly conveying the message _I said shut up._ At this, the other man rolled his eyes and pretended to pull a zipper over his lips. 

"Dear Jim," he said, taking an extra long pause to breathe, "please will you fix it for me… that I'm never lonely again?" 

"Just so."  

 


End file.
